eft Stamford without saying more than cold words of good-bye.
He did not go with Kate's party, we felt certain; and many weeks
passed without hearing from him. Effie never made a remark; and our
days passed quietly as they had before the appearance of Kate Barclay
in our quiet little village. It was not long, however, before we saw
in the newspapers, and read without comment, the marriage of Kate
Barclay with Col. Paulding.

"See this," said Mrs. Morris to me one morning as I entered the
drawing-room, and she handed me a letter. We were alone, Effie was
attending to her plants in the conservatory. I took the letter and
read it. It was a wild, impassioned one from Lucien. Two months had
elapsed since his silent departure, and this first letter was written
to Mrs. Morris. It was filled with self-reproaches, and earnest
entreaties for her intercession and mine with Effie. He cursed his
infatuation, and the cause of it, and closed with the declaration that
he would be reckless of life if Effie remained unforgiving. As I
finished reading the letter I heard Effie's voice warbling in wild and
plaintive notes in the conservatory,

"How should I your true love know,
From another one,
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon?"

And the scene at the opening of this story rose before my
remembrance--the playful argument--the declaration made by her that
true, pure love could not have any affinity with pride--and I was lost
in reverie.

"What would you do, Enna?" inquired Mrs. Morris.

"Give the letter to Effie without remark," I replied. "We cannot
intercede for him--he does not deserve to be forgiven."

The letter was given to Effie, who read it quietly; and if she evinced
emotion, it was not before us. She said she was sorry for Lucien, for
she had discovered a change in her own feelings. She did not love him
as she fancied she had, and she could not in justice to herself
fulfill their engagement--it was impossible. She wrote this to him,
and all his wild letters were laid calmly and quietly aside. Can this
be pride? I said to myself. But she seemed as though she suspected my
thoughts, for the night before I returned to my city home, as we were
leaning against the window-frame of our bed-room, listening the last
time for that season to the tumbling, dashing water-music, she said,

"Enna, dear, it was not spirit and pride that made me act so unkindly
to Lucien--indeed, it was not. But I m